I went digging for goddamns and found nothing but God’s dam—backing up hypocrisy like a sewer on the verge of bursting. Thought maybe I’d reel in the meaning of that little fish glued to the backs of tan sedans crawling toward mediocrity but turns out it’s just another barnacle clinging to the herd, a bumper sticker with a punchline no one gets. Worse, it’s an acronym—because nothing screams divine wisdom like a secret handshake for suburbanites.
The “shalt nots” were scribbled in dirt while God was out fishing—dreamed up by crackpots, half-cocked in hypocrisy. “In God we trust.” Sounds less like faith, more like a slogan on a war bonds poster peeling off a gas station wall. Maybe God was pickled, tripped over his Birkenstocks into some desert bog, pulled his head out of the sand just long enough to count his fingers and think, “Ten. Yes, ten’s a good number. That’ll keep the peasants from eating each other.”
And so, we got “thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain”—but no asterisk for exceptions. Like, say, strapping a bomb to your chest and screaming God’s name on the way out for an express ticket to 72 virgins who, funny enough, spent eternity dodging exactly this scenario.
But before your fingers can strum a harp in the happy hunting grounds of the untouched, you’ve gotta learn to count—because obedience starts young. One… two… three… TIME OUT. Fear gets baked into you before you can spell your own damn name. But the holy scribes forgot their ABCs when it came to abortion.
A: If you climbed in through the side window, anonymity won’t save you.
B: Blood on your hands—stillborn or in plain sight, doesn’t matter.
C: And then, there’s the C. section.
No questions. Just follow the script. The big one? Thou shalt not kill—unless the bastard prays to the wrong God. Then, rape, burn, behead, and while you’re at it, rape again. All glory to one.
Cue the laugh track. Not only do these rules own you here, but once you clock out, guess what still applies? Ignore them?
You shalt not.
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